


anniversaries and meetings

by fabricdragon



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 4 prompt challenge, Brothers, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Past Torture, Post-SPECTRE, SPECTRE Fix-It, Unhealthy Relationships, challenge1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-02-27 21:04:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Max Denbigh is Jim Moriarty's brother.  Everyone is mixed up with everyone else, and Jim JUST found out that his brother needs rescuing... not being actually dead seems to run in the family.(Spectre Fix it)chapter 1 started as a drabble, written especially for  my friend Mickie. her prompts were: sphynx, trouble-causing-brother, 00What?, or meet-me-at-the-dock.it was also an attempt to fill the  January prompt for the 12 month fan fic challenge :drabbleit got out of hand





	1. a meeting at the Sphynx

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mickie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/gifts).



James and Madeline had finally come to their inevitable conclusion. He simply hadn’t been able to put the lifelong habits of violence behind him, and when an assassin showed up he dispatched him with ruthless efficiency.  Madeline… well it was too close to what she’d been running away from her whole life.

The split was amicable enough, really, they just couldn’t change.

They’d been in Cairo when it all happened, and James stayed… the warrens of shops, and some of his old contacts, made him feel at home.  It wasn’t London, but it was comfortable. Eventually he decided to play tourist and see the sights while he tried to figure out what to do.  He was looking at the Sphynx and stayed behind after the tour bus left.

A sad memory of a Quartermaster and a painting… _the inevitability of time…_ he couldn’t help but mutter  to himself as he stared at the Sphynx with its missing nose and battered stonework, “Poor thing looks about as battered as I feel…”

“You certainly don’t look battered…” an amused Irish drawl surprised him– he’d thought all of the tourists had left– “but I wouldn’t mind a closer look.”

James turned to retort and the words stopped in his throat.  He’d changed his looks a bit, but it was Max Denbigh– Max Denbigh who was supposed to be dead.  James went for his gun.

“None of that.” An English voice, growled but with an upper class edge, called from a bit away. “I can drop you from here if I have to.”

James had his gun out and pointed at Max but he angled his  stance to take in the figure leaning casually a bit away, with what looked like a gun held expertly down by his hip.

“Not before I finish what I thought was over and done with.” James answered.

“Really?” Max looked amused and unconcerned, “You’re associated with Sherly? Or maybe his big brother? However did you find me?”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about Denbigh, but–” James was calculating quickly, he was fairly certain he could drop both of them without taking a FATAL wound, but…

“Denbigh?” Max frowned and then he laughed suddenly, “Oh dear… no…. that’s my brother. We do look a great deal alike, but no… I’m Jim, James if you want to be formal I suppose.  So… planning on shooting me or ….” He moved closer, until the gun barrel was up against him. “We could go back to flirting.”

James stared at the man.  This was Max Denbigh… just subtle differences, but… he didn’t carry himself the same way… “You…AREN’T Max Denbigh…?” James tracked his eyes over the differences, a faint scar that was clearly old– Max hadn’t had that– the precise angle of his lips, his ears– subtle differences, but there… The man met his eyes with nothing but amusement. James slowly stepped back and took his finger off the trigger. “You…”

Whatever James was about to say was cut off as a hand clamped around his wrist holding the gun.

“You’re trying to give me a ruddy heart attack!” the Englishman snapped at ‘Max’, “Walking into his gun like that!”

James had already turned by reflex and flipped the man aside– losing his gun in the process, sadly.  The man bounced to his feet and prowled around Bond like a big cat.

It was when the sharp stabbing pain hit him in the back that James realized he had foolishly assumed Max Denbigh– or his brother– wasn’t part of the equation.  He turned back and felt a wave of dizziness.

“Tiger?” the Max-with-an-Irish-drawl said, as James’ vision wavered, “I think I need to find out what my brother has been up to… besides, he’s cute: fetch him along– I have a few questions…”


	2. again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i SHOULD be finishing a big bang right now, but this wouldn't leave me alone.  
> (not Beta'd or corrected, I'll get to that eventually)

Bond woke up to a blur of light.

“Oh not again…”

“Again?” a voice asked him… _Irish… pleasant…Max Denbigh? No…_ Bond forced himself to try to look around despite the light stabbing his eyes.

“Last time I woke up to hazy white light a bastard tried to drill into my brain.” Bond said as he tried to focus.  About all he could tell was it wasn’t a sterile white room, but it was very bright. He felt relaxed though, and as long as he kept his eyes closed the light wasn’t bad…

“Really? Do tell…”

Bond did:  he told him about Franz, and Madelyn, and the watch; about Max Denbigh and Seven Eyes, and Q; about explosions and Spectre… it sort of tumbled out of him in no particular order.

The room was coming into focus slowly, and Max–Jim, he insisted– was giving him sips of something sweet when his head cleared enough to realize just how much he’d been talking.

“What in the hell did you give me?”

“Ahhh, back with us again are you?” Jim smirked. “It’s a concoction of my own: sadly it has some rather severe side effects in some people; you tolerated it well, lucky me.”

“Wouldn’t that be lucky me?” Bond asked as he tried to evaluate the room and his situation– it was a rather luxurious room, although all in pale colors, and the light was both from overhead lights and the Egyptian sunlight pouring in through the windows.

“That… depends on what happens next, I suppose,” Jim had apparently changed out his walking around clothes for silk loungewear covered in skulls.

“You… are actually Max Denbigh’s brother?”

“Mmmm-Hmm, although his name wasn’t always Max– we’re both named James actually.  Sounds like he may be in a bit of a pickle; I suppose I should rescue him or something.” Jim said idly– he didn’t sound terribly concerned.

“He’s dead… I think you already got that.” _Whatever that drug was it had been terrifyingly effective._ Bond could tell he was restrained, but… his limbs still felt heavy and uncoordinated, so not a good time to try anything.

Jim pursed his lips, “Well, he fell… but YOU didn’t check the body, now did you?”

“No.”

“And it was a nice discreet private funeral from what I looked up on the news, poor innocent Mr. Denbigh died in a tragic accident caused by panic over a bomb threat.”

“So?” Bond began to go over the reports in his head.

“No open casket funeral and only MI6 officials certifying his death?   Tsk, pull the other one it has bells, darling.”

Bond closed his eyes slowly, _Tanner… Tanner said he was dead, and MI6 would have dearly liked to interrogate him… but they’d never be permitted to interrogate a government official_ …“Shit.”

“Mycroft probably knows where he is… but asking him is a tad complicated, seeing as how I happen to be officially dead myself.”

Bond opened his eyes again with effort and tried to ignore the headache. “Who’s Mycroft and why are YOU dead?”

Jim didn’t so much laugh as giggle. “MY-croft,” he said in a sing song voice, “Is the coordinator of all intelligence in Britain.”

“That’s… what Denbigh was trying to create…” Bond frowned… he was feeling inordinately sleepy…

“Yes, I’m sure, but Mycroft Holmes actually already does it.  I expect your M deals with him every now and then, but Mycroft mostly deals behind the scenes…. Hmmm… I wonder how Max got as far as he did?  Mycroft must have been distracted or my dear brother would have died of something nicely untraceable long before.”

Bond tried to say something and couldn’t quite manage.

“Ah, that would be the normal period of unconsciousness setting in: still, you didn’t die, so… all’s good!” Jim said cheerfully as Bond found he couldn’t open his eyes or move at all.

“Sebie? Let’s get going–” was the last thing Bond remembered hearing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, back in England...
> 
> this... went a bit differently than planned. shrug. its a WIP and i swear the characters don't tell me what they have in mind.

Max Denbigh managed to get a little sleep– difficult to do since the lights were always on and so very bright– before he was hauled out to another round of interrogation. He’d lost track of days – or was it weeks– after waking up in some kind of private hospital, but the questions varied: some days they asked him about Spectre and his plans, other days they asked him about people and names that he didn’t know at all.  Today was apparently another new interrogator, judging from the added restraints.

“Mister Denbigh.” A posh voice, one that sounded vaguely familiar, but Max couldn’t lift his head.

“I suppose so,” he tried to say, but it came out garbled and slurred.

“For God’s sake! This man is completely incoherent.”

“I object to your being involved at all.” A familiar voice?  M…

“I objected to your department being entrusted with this as soon as I found out.  This is far beyond your authority and your handling of this has been abysmal.  Look at him! Is he even able to answer?”

A new voice, “he had been, then he stopped so we upped the dose…”

“How much did you give him?”

He heard numbers and words but they didn’t make much sense, so he just ignored them.  Someone hit him across the face, but the drugs dulled it marvelously.

“That’s hardly going to help.” The posh voice said drily, “I suggest firing this lot: Incompetents all of them.”

A voice that Max finally identified as Mallory spoke up, “We DID get some information at first, but nothing much recently, and I really think–.”

“With the drugs you’re giving him combined with the abuse and lack of sleep? I’m surprised he knows his own name by this point, and the damage could be irreversible.” The posh voice snorted, “If you were trying to throw away your chances, you’ve succeeded, bravo.”

“We don’t normally interrogate people like this.” M’s voice.

“Which is why you should have left it to the experts, as I said, but you were too proud to–”

“You hardly got anywhere with Moriarty!”

Max didn’t hear the response except as noise… _Moriarty? That was familiar… why? Oh yes…_ “James used that…”

“Be QUIET Mallory!” the posh voice commanded, and then more softly continued, “James used that? Tell me about James, Max.”

Max drifted off into thoughts, and people started yelling again.

There was a sharp noise, and the posh voice said, “One more sound out of any of you incompetents and I will arrange for a personal tour of proper interrogation facilities– that includes you, Mallory.”

Someone touched him, gently for a change,   a hand on his shoulder and the posh voice spoke very close by, “Tell me about James? I’d like very much to hear about him…”

Max liked the posh voice; it was so very calm and measured, “James, Jamie, Jimmie, Jim….” The rhythm of it was familiar and he repeated it to himself– he repeated it several times.  The posh voice didn’t interrupt like the other ones did. “James Ryan Donnelly Doyle…” Max found the familiar rhythms and tones falling off his tongue…

“Who was James Ryan Donnelly Doyle?” the posh voice asked and a hand stroked his hair back carefully and lifted his head.  There was a pleasant face, a bit thin, with freckles across his nose… “Who was James Ryan Donnelly Doyle, Max?”

“My brother Jimmy…” Max told the posh voice with the reddish brown hair and the freckled nose. “He’s dead now, God rest his soul–no one else will.”

“Your… brother?” he was supporting Max’s head and his hand didn’t hurt. “How very interesting…I think I met him…”

“That’s too bad…” he said solemnly to the freckles, “he was mad, but my mother favored him…” He drifted off, remembering childhood arguments and agreements… when they took him from the chair and let him lie down someplace dark, he drifted to sleep immediately.

~

Q had finally managed to fix a rather annoying bug in one of the new pieces of equipment- rubbish really, but someone had foisted the stuff off on his department.  _If only Bond were still here I’d assign it to him and he’d break it and that would take care of it, but Bond was off with that woman…_

As if in answer to thinking of him, Q’s private email– the one that a total of four people had, one of them Bond– lit up with an incoming message.

“Line security uncertain: need to speak in person.” And a string of numbers… from Bond’s phone.

Intrigued Q set to work decoding the numbers. Bond must have gotten a lot better at encoding, or more likely gotten someone else to code it for him, but it decrypted into an address in the London suburbs.  Trust Bond to just expect him to show up, Q sighed to himself; _well he didn’t set a time…_

Q finished up his work and went to the location: not being a complete fool he was taking precautions, including leaving a note for R as to where he was going.  He was still several blocks away when he saw a large man by the side of the road with a broken down motorcycle…

A very good looking large man, with a really nice looking motorcycle.

Q pulled over and stuck his head out, “You alright?”

“Blasted thing keeps having electrical issues,” the man answered– he sounded surprisingly posh.

“I could have a look,” Q offered politely, “but honestly electrical problems can be rather time consuming to fix.”

The motorcyclist looked at him and then blinked a few times and looked him over again with an appreciative air, “I wouldn’t mind.” He managed to make that sound like an invitation, but he didn’t move or make any threatening gestures.

 _Gay?  I stumbled over a gay motorcycle riding man who looks like he could be a Double Oh_?  Q’s first thought was it was a lucky break, his second was to think it was too good to be true.

“I have to go somewhere, and I’m on a time crunch…” Q said with some reluctance– _it didn’t seem like a trap, but…_

“S’alright, I’ve called for a ride… still, I could give you my number, if you want to see if you can figure it out?”

“Sure,” that was safe enough.

The man got into his wallet and came out with a business card and a pen and walked over, “Email or phone better?”

“Email… or text.” The man smiled and started to write and that was the last thing Q remembered until he woke up.

~

Bond woke up, again, with a memory of a stinging sensation in his arm, this time looking up at a different ceiling.  He tried to move and found that he was restrained wrist and ankle to the bed frame– not uncomfortably, but securely.  He had enough freedom to shift his position but not enough to sit up.

“And good morning!” Max-with-an-Irish-accent, or Jim, said cheerfully as he walked into the room.

What Bond could see didn’t look like anywhere in Egypt…“I’ve definitely had better.”

Jim pouted in an exaggerated fashion, “Tsk! I’ll lose my guide Micheline rating.”

“Well I’m not dead, so you must want something.”

“I want to find out where Max is.”

“I don’t know!”

“Oh, I know! but one of the two of you should be able to find out…”

“Two of…?” Bond looked around dubiously.  There was a second bed in the room, but no one occupying it.

At that point the man Jim had called Tiger came into the room carrying a limp nude man carefully in his arms. “Can we keep this one? He’s cute.”

“That depends on how this all plays out, Tiger: put him over there.”

Tiger secured the man to the bed and stepped back… as Bond had feared the moment he saw the slender form and unruly brown hair, it was Q.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it better or worse when your kidnapper seems so cheerful?

Q woke up lying flat on his back staring up at a ceiling… _gorgeous motorcycle guy, what?_

“Q?” a very familiar voice said his name. “Are you awake yet?”

“Bond?” Q tried to stay calm and pulled carefully on his hands– _yup, restrained_ – “so it was a trap, damn.  I was taking precautions, too.”

“Do you remember how they got you?”

“There was a good looking guy with a good looking motorcycle broken down by the side of the road,” Q heard a door open but kept talking, “I was afraid it was a trap, but  I don’t know how I ended up unconscious.”

“Glad to see you up,” a cheerfully posh voice said, “and it was the pen– I sprayed you in the face.”

Q rolled his head to the side and saw the man from the motorcycle putting down two bags.

“With a pen…” Q grumbled, “It would be with a pen! Bond, this is your fault somehow!” Q was trying to prepare himself for the worst and not antagonize his captors–whoever they were– but he always did get snappish under stress.

“I’m afraid it may be,” Bond reluctantly said, as he tried to brief the Quartermaster without giving anything away. “I ran into Max Denbigh’s brother in Egypt– this fellow works for him– and got drugged and interrogated.”

“Max had a brother?!” Q tried to sit up and failed.

“Anyway, call me Tiger– the boss does– and yes, Max is his brother.  They aren’t close though.” The man said as he was maneuvering two folding tables.

“Bloody LOOK close enough.” Bond grumbled.

“What?” Q sagged back into the bed, “Can anyone give me a score card here? Or is that a lost cause?” There was a limit to what Bond could tell him with the enemy right there, of course…

Tiger laughed, “Sure, my boss saw Bond here in Egypt and was flirting– he likes that type–and then your agent pulled a gun on him and started calling him Max.  Boss acted like his usual reckless lunatic self and distracted him long enough for me to disarm him, then I distracted him long enough for boss to tranq him.  That’s the gist of it.” he looked thoughtful, “Then he interrogated him, and luckily your fellow tolerated it well, after that we just packed up and got back to England.”

Bond was shocked he gave Q that much information, but he could use it. “The first part of that I can confirm,” Bond said for Q’s benefit, “Thanks for telling me we’re in England.”

He expected Tiger to realize he’d slipped, or comment about how he would have figured it out soon enough, but instead Tiger just said, “No problem!” cheerfully, and unpacked an assortment of containers from the bags. “I didn’t know if you had any food issues– boss never does remember to ask, you’d think he would– so I got a few things…”

“Max… had a brother…” Q tried valiantly to bring his hand over to pinch the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t have the range of motion. “He never told me!”

“Would you have known?” an Irish accented voice asked from the door.

Q rolled his head back to look and froze. “Max?” he whispered…

“Jim, actually.” Jim came in and Q tracked him with the wide eyed look of someone seeing a ghost.

“You… you look just… oh my God you’re Moriarty!” Q suddenly had all the pieces snap into place, “everyone commented on how much Max looked like him!”

“What?” Bond suddenly had the feeling he’d been left behind somehow, “Q? What are you talking about?”

“It was years ago, before I… before we met, Bond… there was a whole fuss about some fellow who supposedly hacked his way through a lot of security– was found not guilty.  Everyone commented that Max looked like him; it annoyed him no end.”

Jim stared at Q and pulled up a chair, “Now that’s VERY interesting my dear, because that would imply you knew my brother prior to this little fuss with MI6…”

 _Oh fuck._ “Uh…”

“Don’t make me get out the drugs, darling, the odds that BOTH of you would survive with your brains intact are very low.”

Bond quickly tried to deflect the attention away from Q and spoke up, “I admit to being curious myself.” Bond allowed, “but secure information–”

“It’s not secure information except about myself.” Q stated firmly. “What do you want? I’m not unwilling to talk about myself– since that is my business, not MI6– but threats tend to make me uncooperative.” Q glanced down at himself, “And being naked chained to a bed isn’t what I consider negotiating in good faith.”

“I TOLD you, boss, he’s cute!” Tiger said with a grin.  Then much to both Bond and Q’s shock he walked over and gently pulled Jim up from his chair, “Look, why don’t you go off and keep shaking your contacts and let me feed them, hmm?  Hungry people make very cranky decisions.”

“Tiger…” Jim said in a warning tone.

“Boss, you haven’t had any dinner yet, and you KNOW what you get like without dinner.”

Jim frowned up at the man, “one of these days…”

“I know, I know,” Tiger rolled his eyes, “One of these days I’ll push you too far and you’ll forget why you keep me around.” he smirked down at Jim.

“Damn straight.” Jim said, but his frown was tugging upwards at the corner.

“Damn gay,” Tiger corrected him with a grin, “and hung like a horse.”

Jim burst out laughing, “One of your better features admittedly, alright, alright… just be careful with them.”

“Shoo, you can go be an evil genius after you eat.” Tiger said giving him an affectionate push toward the door.

Jim walked out saying, “I’m always an evil genius, Tiger.”

Tiger yelled after him, “Yeah, but you’re less likely to blow anything up if you EAT regularly!”

Bond and Q mostly stared at each other in varying amounts of shock or disbelief, but finally Bond cleared his throat, “You’re married?”

“That obvious?”

“…Yes.”

Tiger chuckled, “well we don’t exactly have a typical relationship- he’s the brains and I shoot things: he’s in charge, but someone has to look after him or he’ll forget to eat.” He grinned, looking between Q and Bond, “Getting the impression you two know what I mean.”

Bond stared at him and slowly tracked over at Q who was turning a rather peculiar shade of red. “I…certainly hadn’t thought so, based on our past– I’m rather a jackass.”

Q sighed, “at least you admit that.”

Tiger waved a container cheerfully, “so… I’m going to unlock you two enough to eat, and then I have to go chase after the boss or he’ll try to live on biscuits and tea.”

“Q certainly does.” Bond said before he could stop himself. Tiger’s friendliness was damnably effective at breaking down the usual reticence to talk to a captor.

“Aww... I knew I thought he was cute! Probably reminds me of Jim– I always had a thing for scarily intelligent boffins.” He grinned and ruffled Q’s hair, “Jim likes blonds, and beefcake.” He added nodding at Bond.

Q glanced at Bond and they silently agreed to try to keep the man talking, so Q asked, “and where do we fit into this?”

“Well, boss WAS just flirting with him until he pulled a gun and called him Max, right now we’re trying to find his brother.” Tiger sighed and got out a key, “I dunno– I kind of hope he’s dead and you can prove it: they don’t get along.”

Tiger unlocked Q’s hands and one leg– he didn’t give Q much opportunity to try anything, Bond noted unhappily– and put a bunch of containers on the folding table he’d set up next to the bed. “Sit up slowly or you’ll get dizzy!”

“You sound like you’re used to taking care of prisoners…” Bond said slowly, watching for any chance to get an advantage.

“Only occasionally,” he shrugged, “Jim doesn’t usually keep prisoners, but he wants you two to find his brother.” He looked thoughtfully at Bond, “JUST so you know, I only have the keys to three of your restraints.”

“What?”

“Jim has the key to your other wrist.”

Tiger unlocked Bond’s ankles. Bond was trying to figure out if that was true or not when Q spoke up, “That’s clever, why not do that with me?”

“Why do you think your one leg is still cuffed? He’s got that key too.” Tiger grinned, “Nice pickpocketing job, by the way, but that key you got off me won’t unlock your other leg.”

Bond startled– _he’d pickpocketed him? when?!–_ and Q stared at him and asked, “how did you know?!”

“Didn’t.” Tiger said unlocking Bond’s wrist. “But Jim is a very accomplished pick pocket– I guess I just assumed.”

He put a lot of containers in reach of Bond and moved out of range. “You can keep the key,” he said to Q casually, “But if I need to re-secure you, you best not have lost it.”

Q sighed and tried the key on his leg cuff– it didn’t fit. “Then you may as well take this back,” he said holding it out.

Tiger walked over and then moved suddenly and quickly to the foot of the bed and grabbed Q’s foot: holding it well off the bed he held out his hand, “sure, toss it.”

Q sagged back on the bed, “fucker.”

Tiger just laughed and said, “Not without Jim’s permission.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “You think Q is a threat? With one leg chained down?” trying to goad him into something foolish like letting go of Q’s leg and moving in range… or turning his attention to Bond at least.

Tiger dropped Q’s foot and moved away to the door, “Adorable brunette geniuses are always a threat; I live with Jim, remember?” he was about to say something else when a shouted, “Sebie!!!” came in from the open door.

“Oy, probably set the kitchen on fire again.” Tiger shook his head, “Man’s a ruddy genius but can’t make beans on toast.”  He walked out and closed the door.

There was a lengthy pause as Bond stared at the door and Q stared at the ceiling.

Bond cleared his throat and said, “The room’s probably bugged.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Q snapped.

“Jim does in fact have some kind of drug that made me babble my head clean off– still not sure what all I said, other than too much– which he claims is often lethal or damaging.  He says I tolerated it well.” Bond said carefully, trying to gauge how much he could tell Q without giving anything away to Jim and Tiger. Q seemed to be holding up well, despite the rather surreal circumstances.

“Despite his flirting, I don’t think Jim did anything while I was unconscious…” Bond continued as he looked at Q, “And however insane that whole conversation was Tiger hasn’t been exactly reticent about information, and he didn’t touch you unduly when he carried you in that I could see.”

“Good to know… I don’t recall a thing after he was approaching the car, and I am stripped… it doesn’t feel like he… did anything, though.”

They were both quiet for a few moments and Bond started investigating the food.

Q spoke up quietly, “He looks scarily like Max.”

“I thought he was…”

“Max is dead, why would he want us to find him? Why does Tiger think he’s not dead?”

“Jim said that the fact that only Tanner certified his death, there was a closed casket private funeral, and all that….”

Q sat up slowly. “He thinks… they faked it?” Q shook his head, “I was there, I saw him fall.”

Bond shrugged and started eating– the food looked normal enough and they didn’t have to resort to tricks to drug them. “Well, MI6 would dearly love to have been able to interrogate him– he thinks they faked the death to do that.” He considered the forkful of noodles, “Not bad.” He shrugged, “Better to eat and keep your strength up.”

Q poked dubiously at the food, “It doesn’t look bad, but–”

“If they wanted to drug you they could have.”

“Right…” Q took a bite hesitantly, “hey! This is Loud John’s!”

Bond blinked a lot, but Q had now set into the noodles with some enthusiasm. “Loud…John’s?”

“Best noodle place in London,” Q said around mouthfuls, “I used to eat there all the time, their sauces are a…secret…” he stared at Bond, “we must be within a fairly short distance.”

“Does that help?”

“It’s nowhere near the location they had me going to, so our people will be looking in all the wrong places.” Q glanced at Bond and blinked meaningfully– _S…B… in Morse_ …– “They did strip all my tracers off.”

 _Smart Blood…_ Bond forced the smile off his face, “Well then it’s up to us to get out of here.” Bond nodded at him and changed the subject, “Do you think it’s possible that Max survived?”

“I think we would have heard about it by now, don’t you? and If he did… If… then he would have been pretty badly hurt.” Q shook his head, “no, I don’t think so.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (posting early for Mickie)

Max woke up, and then wondered if he was dreaming. He was in a comfortable bed, and the light beyond his eyelids was dim but not dark. He slowly opened his eyes and looked around…

 _Not a bed, but a cushion on the floor… comfortable though, with a sheet on it. There was a room, like… like a sitting room? No… an office?_ His eyes slowly focused on a man sitting at a desk, working on a computer.

“What?” Max felt an odd pull or weight against his neck as he sat up. He was otherwise nude under a blanket.

The man looked over; a vague memory of a cool, gentle hand surfaced before he placed him as someone he’d seen at a few political parties.

“I… know you? Aren’t you Mister Holmes?”

“Yes. And you turn out to be James Michael Donnelly Doyle. Odd of your parents to name you both James.”

 _Oh, this was very, very bad_ … Max swallowed carefully. “They were odd people.”

“They must have been, given your brother,” Mycroft nodded. “Can you manage to hold a cup yet?”

Max let himself fall back into the cushion. “I’ve no idea.” He pulled a hand out of the covers carefully and stared at his arm: it was marked with scars and punctures, and his nails were gone, but everything seemed to be treated and it didn’t hurt–much. “Why am I alive?”

“Because incompetence bothers me, and Mallory made the mistake of permitting me to see what a hash they’d made of your interrogation.” He got up smoothly and walked over. “Up you go. You’ll be unsteady, I expect.”

Mycroft pulled him to his feet firmly–but without hurting him–and he swayed and stumbled as he was led over to a cushion next to a chair. Mycroft settled him on the cushion, guided him to lean on the chair, and then walked away. He found himself looking in puzzlement at a leash clipped to a fixture on the chair and reached out a hand…

“No.” Mycroft’s voice was firm and he tapped Max’s hand. “You never touch your leash.”

Max frowned in confusion and tried to look back at the… _It led up to…_ He put a hand up to his neck… _Collar?_

“Hmm… In future, you shall not touch your collar, either, but I expect a bit of confusion is understandable.”

When Max tried to figure out how to get it off, Mycroft tapped his hand. “No. Now, drink some water. We have a number of rules to go over, assuming you are recovered enough to comprehend them.”

Max felt a migraine coming on and his eyes closed. “What the hell is going on?”

“Mallory finally called me in after his people nearly killed you and threw away any chance at your information. I had you taken away in an ambulance, and my people recorded your death by heart failure before you even reached our facility–tragic. I am raking M over the coals for it.” Mycroft smiled pleasantly. “If he develops an understanding of our relationship, he may be permitted to keep his job; otherwise, I shall find a suitable replacement.”

Mycroft held the cup of water to his lips until he sipped at it and shakily took the cup in his hands. “Officially, you are dead and disposed of… In any event, they wasted their opportunity.”

“Then what am I doing here?”

Mycroft sat back in the chair looking down at him thoughtfully. “I used to do some business with James Moriarty… and then after he started going after my brother Sherlock–”

Max dropped the–fortunately empty–cup. _Oh, God damn it, it was the same family?_ “I haven’t seen my brother in person in years, and the last time I saw even an image of him was at his trial over the crown jewels. He was shot on some roof, or shot himself–more likely he was shot by a sniper and it was covered up–but…” He looked up warily at Mycroft. “Are you saying he didn’t?”

“To the best of my knowledge–until recently–James Moriarty was dead and gone. I had him cremated after the autopsy.”

“Until… recently?”

“You and he are in fact biologically full siblings?”

“…Yes…” _Much as I might wish otherwise._

“The genetics of the body do not match yours, Max–or do you prefer James?–not at all…”

~

Jim came back in after they’d eaten–and found a portable urinal under each bed.

“Now then, Q, do tell me about how you know Max? And why do you think he would have told you about me?”

James shot a glance at Q, but he seemed composed enough.

“If I tell you, can I get clothes?” Q raised an eyebrow. “I’m not feeling at all comfortable here.”

“Oh certainly: Tiger will be coming in with clothes for both of you.” Jim smiled politely. “Then its just a question of which one of you is the hostage and which one goes out?”

“Pardon?” Bond asked slowly. “How is THAT going to work?”

“Well, I think personally that Q should go back to work and use those scarily efficient computers and all to track my brother–especially since MI6 likely has him–which means you, James, get to stay.”

“Why do you think–”

“First, tell me how you know my brother.”

“Fine!” Q snapped. “We met at a play party when he was a junior political aid and I was in college.”

“And?”

“And nothing! We went out… We fucked on the weekends…” Q was trying very hard not to look at Bond, or blush. “It all went along swimmingly until someone got wind of it and he broke it off–his reputation and political career, you know?”

“Dom or sub?” Jim asked.

“Not your business,” Q snapped.

“True… but you were close enough to think he would mention family?”

Q sighed. “He let slip that Max wasn’t his real name. I… I helped him shore up the fake ID.”

Bond kept his face blank with effort, but his curiosity was definitely on full; Q was apparently far more interesting than he’d ever thought.

Q looked off at a wall and continued, “I asked about family…. He said his parents were dead, died when he was a kid, and he was on his own. I… He never mentioned siblings.”

“I will have to have a few words with him when we find him.”

“If Max is alive–IF,” Q frowned, “then MI6 has gone against everything I understand about them… everything I signed on for. Look… let me make this clear: I will help you find out what happened to Max because I would be doing it anyway…”

Bond was watching Q get more intent and more firm–his jaw setting in a line that Bond never saw before; Jim apparently found it rather fascinating.

“But?” Jim prompted.

“But you turn Bond loose.”

 _Stupid… I have the best chance of escaping if he lets YOU go._ “Q, I think you’d be better off–”

Jim held up a hand and looked at Q. “Why?”

Q stared at him. “You want me to find Max? I’m the only one who can get through all of MI6 computers, AND I have my own incentives to find out the truth. I don’t work under duress, though. You have a choice: turn us both loose, and I WILL find out what happened and tell you…

“…or shoot me right now.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mission briefing...

Bond groaned. _Really? If they made it through this he was going to demand better training for the non-field personnel…_

Q just locked eyes levelly with Jim and waited.

“You’re adorable,” Jim said after a pause.

“What?” Q blinked in confusion.

“Let me make a few things clear, darling: first of all, I have deep-cover moles scattered throughout London from my old days–they’d hate to be reactivated, but I terrify them.”

“So…?”

“So I can have either of you killed any time I want to.”

Bond interrupted before Q could get them in more trouble. “Understood. Q would need to have a way of contacting you to get you the information… and verify that I am still alive.”

Q sputtered, “You are not only a fossil, you’re an idiot, Bond! I simply refuse to work under that kind of duress.”

“Q, can you just follow my lead on this one?” Bond sighed and rubbed at his face.

“Why? You never follow mine!”

Jim clapped his hands. “Boys, boys… You two are truly adorable, but foreplay later.” He looked thoughtful. “Honestly, once this is all settled I hope you’ll consider a foursome with Sebie and myself… Anyway,” he pointed at Q, “if you try anything, I will make sure you die last–after you watch everyone else. Clear?”

“I don’t work under–”

“You both go back to MI6.”

“…What?”

“You both go back. Bond showing back up should give you enough disruption to allow you to ‘stumble’ over any information with Max…”

Bond immediately saw it. “I was in Egypt and ran into a SPECTRE agent who mentioned Max… right before he died. I came home and contacted Q.”

“Lovely.” Jim smiled sharply at Bond. “James, dear… I am more than willing to play nicely–I just want to find out what happened to Max, after all–but I get… unpleasant… when I feel threatened. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Wonderful!” Jim smiled happily. “I’m afraid we’ll need to take both of you out restrained–I like this safe house. I presume that since you WANT to leave, you can be trusted to cooperate?”

Bond held a hand up at Q. “I have a good tolerance for most things, Jim, but… Q being drugged so many times in rapid succession? If he cooperates, can you just blindfold him–”

“Just take my ruddy glasses off!” Q grumbled.

“Hmm…” Jim looked thoughtful. “You will be removed conscious, but separately. Cause any trouble and the other one… well…”

“Agreed,” Bond said easily.

Q glared at Bond but nodded.

…

Bond was restrained, blindfolded, and had earplugs put in, then–to add insult to injury–he had headphones playing some kind of techno-pop monstrosity put on as well.

“Couldn’t you play something halfway decent?”

He thought Sebastian must have said something by the vibration in the arms, but he couldn’t make it out. He was walked out.

Jim waited until he was gone and then smiled at Q; Q shivered.

“You’re very brave, and Sebie’s right: you remind me of myself when I was younger…”

“I’m over thirty!” Q wailed. “Why does everyone act like I’m eighteen?!”

“Same reason I can play the role of a man in my twenties, darling: we both avoid sunlight, and the rest of it is style and clothing.”

“So we’re… what? Waiting?”

“That, and I wanted to talk to you…”

“About what?”

“As you heard, I drugged James with one of my custom blends–luckily his brains didn’t scramble–and I got… a lot of information.”

“So?”

“So I suspect you two would be highly compatible if you decided to date; I expect Max was fine when you were younger, but he always did think he was a leader when he wasn’t.”

“Subbing is fun…” Q paused and then admitted, “But yes, Max… he was…”

“Trying to be me,” Jim said cheerfully. “If he was actually the self-confident leader he imagines himself to be, he never would have accepted the lackey role with SPECTRE. I assume he had some idea of working his way up and assassinating the leaders–he probably would have been killed when he wasn’t useful anymore.”

“So…?” Q was honestly bewildered by this point.

“So I suspect you like to switch?”

“How the bloody hell do you know I SWITCH?!”

Jim grinned evilly. “Because you do remind me a bit of me… except I can only sub to someone I really trust, and I like playing with knives…”

Q’s eyes widened and he found himself cringing back a bit. “I … uh… that’s way past my limits.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” Jim said, all cheerful and harmless again. “I don’t think Bond is into them. The problem he has–not that he said this, you understand, but I’m pretty good at picking these things up–is that most of the time he likes to top… but he’d love a chance to relax and let someone else do it…”

Q slowly whispered, “But Bond doesn’t trust anyone…”

“Exactly! Except you.”

“What?”

“You. He trusts you. That was absolutely clear from his interrogation: he trusts YOU. He may take you for granted–”

“DOES take me for granted.”

“–but he trusts you.”

Jim smiled and handed him a blindfold. “Up to you what you DO with the information, but…”

Q put the blindfold on and the earplugs in. “Um… thank you?”

“No problem!” Jim sang, then earphones dropped over Q’s head and his hands were cuffed behind his back.

…

Q was dressed, walked around, and then eventually put in a vehicle. After a long time, he was unrestrained by Sebastian. He was back at his car, although he had no idea where they were–a garage somewhere.

“Phone and all in the back seat,” Sebastian said cheerfully.

“Where’s Bond?”

“Leave the garage, take the first left; there’s a small café–he’ll be there, unless he left. I told him to wait for you.”

“Right…”

“You are SO cute,” he said reaching out to ruffle his hair; Q snarled at him.

“Awww… You two have fun now! Jim’s contact information is in your wallet, and hopefully I’ll see you later!”

Q huffily waited until Sebastian opened the garage door, then went to retrieve Bond.

He was, in fact, sitting at the café, reading.

Q pulled up and Bond got in. After a few turns, Bond said, “Perhaps I better drive?”

“Shut up, Bond–you returned a STEERING WHEEL!”

Bond dug his fingers into the armrest. “That was a mission… You took that turn a bit close, don’t you think?”

“No one likes a back seat driver, Bond; sit there and shut up.”

By some miracle, he did… He got out of the car a bit hurriedly once they pulled into the MI6 secure parking, though.

“So how do you want to handle this?” Bond asked him.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because you went ahead and did it your way despite my best efforts, so I thought I would try to anticipate it this time?”

Q looked at him thoughtfully. “Jim was right.”

“What?”

Q shook his head. “I was scared and angry and… Well, it worked, but what do you advise? I really DO need to find out about Max, although as far as I know…”

“Escort me to M’s office, and… check for bugs.”

Q nodded.

Mallory–M–looked up in shock as his Quartermaster–he had been notified when he came in, after all; they had an alert out–came in with James Bond. They both looked disgruntled.

“Well, I begin to see why you were absent, Quartermaster, but… I…” He watched as Bond stood quietly while Q did a quick check and turned a small statue on his bookshelf in an odd way.

“All listening devices and outside communication jammed.” Q nodded.

“We… have a mole?”

Bond waved at chairs and everyone sat down. “We MAY have a mole,” Bond nodded. “Right now, we have a public story, what we can afford to get back to other people, and a few details I want to keep close to my chest.”

“Very well… You have the floor, Bond.” M sat back to listen.

“Is Max Denbigh alive?”

Mallory winced, “No.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, “What’s going on?”

He looked back and forth between Q and Bond, “I assume this is important.”

Q didn’t open his mouth, he didn’t dare, but his eyes were cold. Bond wondered just how bad this would be.

“Very. Life or death, in fact,” Bond answered calmly.

Mallory got out a bottle of antacid and took one. “Max Denbigh survived the fall, although he was injured badly.”

Q swore–at least Bond presumed that noise was swearing from the intonation–and Mallory hesitated before continuing. “We had him–”

“–in interrogation,” Bond said tiredly, “because you couldn’t interrogate Max Denbigh: you’d never be allowed… if he was alive.”

“Correct.”

“Died in interrogation?” Bond looked thoughtfully at Q; based on both Q and Jim’s reactions, this was going to be bad.

“Basically,” Mallory sighed, “He was taken out of our hands, but died before he could be gotten to medical or further interrogation–the drugs we had been using…” Mallory trailed off at Q’s murderous look and Bond’s amusement.

Q stood up. “You will have my resignation as soon as I can print it.” He practically spat out each word.

“What?! Quartermaster, I assure you–”

Bond put a hand firmly on Q’s arm and squeezed–just enough to make it clear–and interrupted Mallory. “I’ll talk to the Quartermaster; I’m sure we can settle this.” He turned Q and started marching him toward the door. As he reached it he asked–in his best casual voice–“Who took custody of him?”

“Mycroft Holmes. You wouldn’t have heard of him, but–”

Bond turned. “Oh, yes. My contact in Egypt mentioned that name; said he’d killed Max Denbigh. Since that didn’t make sense, I came back. Looks like you do have a leak, M; I’ll stick around to help clean it up.”

“Thank you, Bond…” M was looking confused and a bit suspicious, but let him lead the Quartermaster out.

“Not a word until we get to your office, Q,” Bond said quietly.

Bond let go of him and followed him tamely enough to Q branch. They were delayed a few minutes by having to solve a minor problem, but eventually Q got Bond into his office and activated the jammers.

“We’re private.” Q collapsed into a chair and watched Bond sprawl on his sofa. “What’s going on?”

“Jim did mention Mycroft Holmes. He said normally he would just ask Mycroft where his brother was, but he couldn’t because he was officially dead.”

Q nodded slowly. “Jim Moriarty… was mixed up with a mess with a detective named Sherlock Holmes; you think it’s related?”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Two names like that?”

Q nodded, “They killed him… They murdered him… I’m going to–”

“Stop being so gullible?” Bond smiled.

“What?”

“Mycroft Holmes–who is mixed up with Jim–‘took Max away’ and he died–out of sight–and once again no one testifying actually saw him dead, did they?”

Q looked up hopefully. “You think he’s alive?”

“I think he didn’t die on route. Whether he’s dead now?” Bond shrugged.

“Contact Jim and let him know.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> never anger your crew chief, or your quartermaster...

Bond prowled around Q branch–and occasionally outside of it–drawing attention while Q apparently went back to work.

Q sent a message to Jim, and began the process of hacking into the records on what really happened to Max Denbigh.

_You are contacting me rather quickly? – JM_

_Bond got preliminary information fast. Max survived, injured; was interrogated; taken out of MI6 custody by one Miecroft(sp?) Holmes. Apparently died in transfer, but Bond points out it’s another unobserved death and you mentioned this Holmes–related to Sherlock? – Q_

There was a very long pause before he got a reply; in the meantime, Q found traces of Max’s stay in MI6 unofficial custody. They’d tried to erase it, and likely most of it was never on the computers, but Q was the best. By the time Jim replied, Q had gone ice cold.

_Mycroft Holmes is Sherlock’s older brother. He runs intelligence in England, very behind the scenes. If he wanted Max, that’s bad–and if Max died before he got to him, he would have had M fired by now. Max is alive, or was. – JM_

_I found some records. There are people I will be removing from MI6–permanently. Do you want first shot at them? – Q_

_Why? – JM_

_Most of the records were never filed properly–they tried to lose them. Max was tortured–badly. Judging from what is on the computers, his condition must have been horrible before Mycroft took him. Mallory and Tanner were behind it. I have the names of four of the interrogation team; I will have them all by tomorrow. – Q_

Bond let himself back into the office and stopped. Q looked like… Well, he wasn’t sure what to compare him to, but he didn’t look friendly.

“Q?”

“We are secured.” Q’s voice was flat and emotionless as he typed a few commands into the computer. “Assuming Jim picks up, we will be on voice momentarily.”

A faint crackle preceded Jim’s voice coming from the speakers. “Q?”

“Bond is back. I thought it would be better to brief you together.” Q looked up at Bond and his eyes had the lethal flatness of a Double O’s. “Max Denbigh was not ‘interrogated’–he was tortured. They didn’t put a lot into the system, and I’m not sure how many records there actually are, but just the medical requisition and equipment use tells me he was hurt badly. Given the drugs that vanished into this? He may have brain damage.”

Jim hissed very much like a viper.

“Oh, hell…” Tiger’s voice in the background. “Arming up.”

“He was taken away over M’s objections by one Mycroft Holmes, and Mallory told the two of us he died–before he could get to further interrogation or medical–from heart failure, which would be a high risk of the drugs and… other things.” Q’s voice faltered slightly and then resumed its computer-like efficiency.

“It appears Mallory approved the torture after Tanner took impromptu action on scene–then they were both involved. I have the names of four of the interrogation team already.” Q looked back down at the computer and typed a few things. No one else spoke.

“Mycroft Holmes entered his death quite properly in secure computer files: everything in order.”

Jim’s voice was soft. “It would be–Mycroft is efficient–but if Max died when he didn’t want him to? He’d be in a rage… alright, a very contained rage.”

“He has been making Mallory’s life rather difficult, politically, from what I am seeing on M’s computers–lots of additional paperwork and meetings, security clearance issues…Tanner’s as well.”

“Hmm… Alright, he’s mad at them, but… no, Max survived for Holmes to get his hooks into him.”

“It will take me a bit to get into his systems.”

Bond spoke up, “I can get to one of the interrogators and… people do tend to tell me things.”

“Pick one and plant evidence that he’s a leak?” Jim suggested pleasantly.

“Good idea, I’ll see if one makes a good target for that,” Q nodded.

“In the meantime… why reinvent the wheel? I’ll email you the back door taps into Mycroft’s computers–and, more importantly, into Sherlock’s. You should be able to get in from there: do be careful.”

Bond frowned. “If you have that, why didn’t you look?”

“First of all, because I didn’t think Mycroft had him; I just thought he would know where he WAS Secondly? In all honesty, I’m good, but Mycroft’s computer security is top notch, and to use it when I don’t have to risks losing it–so do be cautious.”

“He’ll never know I was there,” Q said with a flash of his more usual inflection.

“Identify everyone that hurt Max unduly–I’m not concerned about the normal scuffles, you understand–but hold off any traceable action until we find out where he is: I don’t want Mycroft alerted.”

Bond nodded even though only Q could see him. “We’ll manage to find one of the interrogators we can leverage.”

“I don’t say this often… but thank you,” Jim said in a very clipped voice. “I don’t LIKE my brother, but… Anyway, call if you need anything.” There was a distinct click.

Q typed for a moment and nodded, “Secured again.” He looked up at Bond. “You asked me to help you with personal business before–this is my personal business.” He looked down at his hands. “Every now and then, a trigger needs to be pulled: I need answers, and I need someone to get them.”

Bond gave him a lazy smile. “My pleasure…”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> research, and questions  
> TW for captivity, canon typical events  
> (finally edited ...)

Max tried to pace out the limits of his room again. Mycroft had spent two days working from home “to get you settled” but today he was off at his office, and Max was locked into his room until he got home. Max absolutely, positively was going to find a way to murder him.

Mycroft hadn’t restrained him to the bed, or locked him in a cage: it was just a very secure and comfortable room with no windows and nothing he could smash. He even had his own small toilet and sink, not that he could use the sink. Max glared at the padded mitten things locked onto his hands: Mycroft said he didn’t have hand privileges yet– _since when was there such a thing as hand privileges?!_ If he’d HAD clothing, he wouldn’t even be able to get it off to use the bathroom: as it is he made a mess when he tried; luckily the bed had some kind of protective cover under the sheets.

Mycroft had gone over the rules–gently, insistently–every day. “Given all the drugs they gave you, Max, it may take you a while, but you’ll learn”. Max wanted to shoot him. He knew his mind was scrambled a bit, but he was recovering. Mycroft didn’t seem inclined to give him anything at all, but had reluctantly given him mild–too mild–pain medication. Part of him thought it was a ploy to keep him in pain, but he had to admit that Mycroft’s concern about his liver was probably justified.

“Don’t touch your leash; don’t touch your collar; don’t get up without asking; stay where you’re placed…” Mycroft never raised his voice, simply restrained him until he couldn’t actually accomplish anything. He almost wished Mycroft would hit him, but Mycroft just treated him like a faintly amusing pet that couldn’t be trusted not to chew the sofa.

He tried to pace again but collapsed back onto the bed. He was very weak, and probably should have saved his energy for something other than pacing around the room, but it was infuriating. Unfortunately by the time Mycroft got home the pain medication seemed to have worn off as well. He was lying curled into a pillow whimpering when the door opened.

“Max?” Mycroft walked over and made an unhappy noise.

A hand touched his forehead and Max tried to snarl at him, but it came out as a rather pathetic “Leave me alone” that bore more resemblance to a whine than a snarl. Mycroft got him a small pudding cup and his pain meds and spoon fed it to him.

“You mustn’t overexert, Max, you are still very weak.” Mycroft slid something cool around his waist– _oh, the restraint belt._ Max tried to fight being put in a walking chain, and having his hands re-secured–minus the mittens–to the belt, but Mycroft anticipated his every move and he got nowhere.

“What do you WANT?!” Max panted at him as he was led out of his room and taken to the bathroom to be cleaned up.

“Oh, I want to know all about you, Max, and your brother Jimmy…” Mycroft clipped his leash to the grab bar in the bathtub and went away. He came back stripped down with some bathing supplies.

Max looked him over warily: he was surprisingly muscled for his slender frame, and he already knew he was tall.

“You get a proper bath today, now that your stitches and such are settled.”

“Going to try drowning me?” Max looked warily at the tub he was in: it was deep enough and they’d spent a lot of time waterboarding him before.

“Good heavens no, I would rather not punish you and I certainly won’t do that: you’re at risk for pneumonia as it is.” Mycroft patted him on the head gently, “And remember; it’s either Mister Holmes, or Sir–Mycroft if I am in a very generous mood–you’ll learn.”

Mycroft simply set about bathing him as though he were an infant. He tried struggling, but there wasn’t much he could do.

“Really Max? You’re worse than my brother was for hating baths… I thought you would enjoy being clean.”

“I don’t want to BE here!”

“Your choices are here… or back at MI6.”

That shut him up for the rest of the bath– _which did feel marvelous, damn it._

Then he was dried and brought down for dinner, kneeling on a cushion next to Mycroft’s chair as Mycroft hand fed him and simply said “No, Max” anytime he forgot the chains and tried to bring his hands up.

The food was good, and he remembered too clearly being hungry, or getting nothing worth eating, during his interrogation to refuse it. He thought about it though. He thought about biting the man, too.

“Tell me about Jimmy?” Mycroft asked him calmly, as he knelt next to his chair in front of the fireplace.

“Let me up on a chair at least?”

“You could eventually earn that,” Mycroft allowed, “but not soon. Tell me about James Ryan Donnelly Doyle.”

Max stared fixedly at the fire, refusing to say anything.

“Of course… you’re tired,” Mycroft said politely and insincerely. “Off to bed with you then.”

He was put back into his mittens–new, clean mittens–the walking chain left in place and a loose chain to the foot of the bed attached, and put to bed.

Mycroft stroked his hair back and Max snapped at him, “Stop TOUCHING me!”

Mycroft just looked down at him, and smiled faintly, “You seemed to like it when I found you. Would you prefer the lights on? Or off?”

Max felt his heart race as he remembered days– _or was it weeks?_ –of light and not even closing his eyes helped… or darkness until he thought he’d gone blind. He shook violently, “No…”

“No?”

“Don’t… don’t do that… the lights… please don’t.”

Mycroft stroked Max’s hair back again, and Max forced himself to stay still and not flinch.

“There… isn’t that better?” Mycroft said in that kind and terrifying voice. “We can talk more tomorrow.”

~

It didn’t take Q long to identify one of the four interrogation techs as vulnerable, and then dig into his personal computer and phone to find… honestly somewhat questionable contacts.

He handed the information to Bond. “Probably just routine stupidity, but in addition to everything else? See if you can find out about his contacts.”

“Of course, Q.” Bond smiled and his eyes were like ice. Q felt a peculiar rush of power, directing one of the weapons of MI6 for his own ends; he pushed it down and went back to work.

The back doors into Mycroft Holmes office still worked, for the most part, and the connections into his brother’s computers were even easier. Someone had tried to secure the computers in Baker Street at one point, but they’d been left un-updated for too long: Q was in them in moments.

Sherlock’s computer was frankly the most difficult to go through, because the man never properly deleted anything. The entirety of the search history was there, at least to someone of Q’s skills. It was evident very quickly that Sherlock Holmes had looked into Max Denbigh and been perplexed, but had also run into Q’s work shoring up the identity and simply been frustrated. He’d communicated with his brother about it: they’d eventually grudgingly concluded a coincidental similarity of appearance.

As to Mycroft’s computer, at first Q thought he’d been led into a deliberate blind: Mycroft’s computer had next to nothing on it. Eventually, however, he realized that the man used it for communication and occasional rough drafts and nothing more–didn’t even play games on it–but the communications history was rich.

It had been deleted repeatedly, but… there were still breadcrumbs. Q spotted traps and alarms, but since they were mostly near the “bait” of international espionage–about which he cared not one whit–he bypassed it all with ease. Mycroft had suspected Max Denbigh of some association with Jim Moriarty, but let it go. He had clearly believed Max’s death until several weeks afterward, when there was a spike in communication–and deliberate trouble–aimed at Mallory: he’d found out about the unauthorized interrogation then.

It was clear that he’d originally intended to pull Max into his own interrogation facilities–and he had them, much to Q’s dismay–but… shortly before Max’s recorded death the preparations ceased.

_Before his recorded death._

_Before Mycroft got him… they had started winding down the preparations?_

It was clear that Max was not, and had never been, in Mycroft Holmes office, or in the interrogation facilities they had there.

Any ordinary hacker would have stopped there. Q continued.

And slowly he pieced together the smallest clues: unusual amounts of groceries delivered, extra days of working from home, and finally–and only because Q knew the BDSM marketplace–a few purchases under other names, but delivered to locations that traced back to Mycroft Holmes.

Q found all of this in between running all of the other business of Q branch, and wondering just how they were going to take MI6 apart.

~

Sebastian sat at a pub in London, one more anonymous fellow drinking a pint and watching the game. He flirted with some girl–cover, more than anything–and carefully tripped Greg Lestrade as he went by: Greg almost landed on him, and he was soaked in beer.

“Oh Christ!” Greg stared up at him. “I am REALLY sorry!”

Sebastian blinked in a startled fashion at him and then down at his jumper. He let himself smile slowly–an honest one: Greg was attractive. “If this was trying to flirt, mate, I prefer drinking the beer to wearing it.”

“I must have had too many,” Greg apologized. _He had, too._ “Please let me make it up to you? Can I get you a cab?”

Sebastian stripped off his jumper, incidentally drawing the attention of several girls and a few guys when his t-shirt slid up showing his abs.

“It’s alright… although I think you should switch to a soft drink.” Sebastian smiled, “I’m Charles, nice to meet you.”

“Greg…” Greg waved the bartender over and bought him a beer, and Sebastian insisted the barkeep bring Greg lemonade.

Sebastian slipped one of Jim’s custom hypnotics into it easily enough.

By the end of the night–when Sebastian took Greg home in a cab, and slept on his sofa–Greg was convinced he’d known Charles for years…


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> research, answers... and baby brothers  
> mentions of age play, pet play, and more

Bond found working with Q on their home territory, and in a more active role, oddly liberating. In London, with the cameras and the electronics completely at Q’s disposal, Bond could effectively vanish, could follow his target at a distance, and when the time came to corner him? Well, traffic lights and electrical issues were easy to control…

“Q, may I say it’s a pleasure…” Bond said under his breath as he slipped through the darkened building.

“What is?”

“Working with you someplace with full electronics,” Bond said as he held the man down until the chloroform could do its work.

Q smiled at the computer screen, “Of course. Get him secured on location and then get to Mallory’s house.”

Getting to Mallory’s home was equally simple: Q looped the cameras on the route just long enough for Bond to slip past. He didn’t need Q’s help to slip past the security, really, but it saved time. Following Q’s instructions he plugged the small electronic box into the car computer.

“Done.”

“Get out of there and go play with that interrogator you picked up,” Q sounded unhappy, “and no, I don’t want to know about it–just the results.”

“I won’t be unduly vicious, Q… he’s a pro–I don’t need to be.”

“…I don’t understand?”

“He’ll know we can hurt him, he’ll know how badly: given that he’s already the weak link? He’ll tell me what I want to know to avoid it.” Bond sighed, “The main issue is that he’ll lie, so make sure I’ve got all the details to check his story against.”

“Already in your phone,” Q nodded. “And… thank you. I don’t mind killing but… torture? I always thought we were better than that.”

“No government is better than that, Q, but I honestly thought we only did it to the other bastards, not our own…” Bond shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t care that they tortured him: your Max, or whoever he was.”

“You…” Q faltered. “You don’t?”

“No. I care that they are willing to secretly take down and torture government officials: that’s a short step to a coup. I care that they lied to you, and this was someone you cared about. I care that–”

“You care that they lied… to me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You backed me up when I needed you to… the least I can do is return the favor.”

Q blinked at the cameras showing Bond slipping through London in the dark… and he wondered if what Jim had said was true.

~

When Mycroft came in to get him for breakfast, Max hadn’t slept much. He let Mycroft lead him out of the room and settle him on the cushion next to him to eat. He tried, really he did, to not pull away as Mycroft stroked a hand over his hair and down his neck.

“Tell me about your brother, Max…”

“He’s dead…” Max said quietly, shivering.

“The body didn’t match your genetics…” Mycroft said pleasantly, “and it’s Sir.”

“Then he had a fake body… I don’t know, I don’t!” Max tried not to cry but he was beyond his reserves.

“Shhh… shhhh…” Mycroft petted down his neck and fed him some more breakfast. “Alright, so? If he’s dead, can it hurt to talk about him?”

“N-no?” Max shivered.

“Sir,” Mycroft said very patiently.

“N-no, Sir.”

“There… that’s better…” Mycroft held a piece of fruit to his lips. “Now… tell me about James Ryan Donnelly Doyle.”

“He… he was mad, and brilliant, and...” Max whispered. “Our mother adored him–she ignored me, mostly. Jimmy… Jimmy just about raised us both…”

“Oh? There weren’t many records…”

“Mother… she was mad–insane, worse than Jim. She… she wasn’t always there, even if her body was...”

“Ah… that would be difficult.” Mycroft petted down his neck and held another piece of fruit to his lips. “Your father?”

“He was dead… I think. He was gone anyway by the time I was at school.” Max couldn’t sit up anymore and just collapsed. Mycroft got up and helped him up–half carried him, really–over to his pad next to Mycroft’s big chair. He settled him there, hooked his leash to the chair, and resumed stroking down his head and neck. Max leaned against his leg for support and let himself drift–Mycroft didn’t say anything until he came back to himself.

“Better?”

“Yes… Sir.”

“It must have been difficult, growing up. Your brother is… erratic.”

“Not really,” Max sighed. “He’s just mad, and vicious, and thinks everything is funny… He could make anything work out somehow… when he bothered.”

“Was he cruel to you?”

“He wasn’t cruel… not to me… or… not deliberately,” Max admitted. “He would plan things and play games–if you didn’t understand them…”

“Ah, and you didn’t?”

“I’m the stupid one,” Max said bitterly.

“So you ran away?”

“Not… exactly. Jimmy… Jimmy didn’t want me close–I guess he didn’t want… the people he was dealing with…”

“Ah, yes. He was indeed dealing with a very dangerous group of people,” Mycroft chuckled, “including the British government sometimes.”

“He… he gave me money. I got a false identity and… majored in politics.”

“And got involved with Spectre… a poor choice.”

Max thought about his current situation. “Losing was a poor choice–Spectre wasn’t.” He braced for punishment of some kind.

Mycroft just tapped at his shoulder gently. “Sir.”

“Sir,” he repeated, and braced.

“I’m hardly going to punish you for answering me when I asked, Max.”

“You… aren’t? Sir,” he added hurriedly.

“Ah… did they? They were rather foolish.” Mycroft sighed and put his hand on Max’s cheek. “If I ask for your opinion, I expect you to give it. If we are in private, as we are, then you answer or discuss things as best as you can… politely. Once you’re trained enough to be around other people? Well… you will understand what you can and cannot speak about by then.”

“Other… uh…” Max shivered again. “I’m officially dead, I think… Sir.”

“Twice over,” Mycroft agreed. “Now, what did you know about your brother’s business?”

“Damn little,” Max grumbled, mostly to himself.

“Language.” Mycroft tapped him on the shoulder again.

“…sorry… Sir.”

“Tell me what you did know: I expect I will find something new in it all.”

Max did his best to remember–honestly, he’d rarely paid attention except to be jealous. Mycroft asked about Jim’s friend’s–he’d had very few, really, although he could make friends easily enough–and how he managed his business, and the last time he’d seen him. Mycroft seemed disappointed that he hadn’t dealt with him in person for so long, and that he hadn’t known much about his dealings with the Holmeses, but unlike Mallory and Tanner and the people at MI6 he didn’t punish him over it.

Mycroft asked him about Spectre, and if anyone was left. Max told him: he rather figured that by now, and under the drugs, he’d told them everything already.

Mycroft just petted him and occasionally gave him something sweet and cool to drink: It was a relief.

~

Bond came back the next day and spoke to Mallory about moles and leaks and the breadcrumbs of evidence Q had planted were leading the internal investigation directly to the interrogator…

The one with already questionable contacts.

Q met Bond after work and took him back to his house.

“You remember Alan and Ada?” Q asked as both cats stared at the unaccustomed visitor.

“We were never formally introduced, no,” Bond said as he hung up his jacket.

“They’re the closest thing I have to family,” Q fixed him with an intense stare.

Bond held up a hand, “Like they were my own.”

Q snorted, “Unlike the equipment, Bond, I will prioritize them over–”

Bond just nodded, “Let’s call.”

It only took Q a few moments to set up the scrambled video conference: apparently Jim and Sebastian were in two different places.

Jim looked a bit tense, “Well?”

Bond began, “I questioned our target. As I told Q, the man was well aware of how much damage I could do, and chose to cooperate from the beginning in exchange for a quick death.”

“Pity,” Jim muttered.

Bond shrugged, “Efficient. I double checked his information before killing him: it was accurate.”

“And?”

“Max was in one of our private hospitals for a bit and then transferred very quietly to interrogation. As far as my target knew only Mallory and Tanner, and their interrogation team, knew who Max was.” Bond spoke calmly and objectively–Q pulled his Quartermaster authority around him like a cloak and tried to be as calm.

“He was interrogated–sloppily, in my opinion–and as far as I can tell he was answering at least some of their questions, but…” Bond glanced at Q and continued, “the interrogation team was left with too little supervision. Mallory and Tanner were only there intermittently and left the interrogators to their own judgement.”

Jim had developed a rather deranged looking smile. “So what happened? In your opinion?”

“I think a combination of getting to hurt someone over their station, and taking some revenge on someone who tried to cause problems for MI6,” Bond answered thoughtfully. “That, and… based on what I was hearing, I suspect they were reacting badly to answers they didn’t like–no matter how accurate. After enough of that, of course, he started not answering–then they increased the drugs and damage because they looked bad to their superiors.”

“I see…” Jim smiled cheerfully: it looked worrisome. “Well, pity he died so quickly. If you get me the names and data on the rest of them I can handle this… after we retrieve Max. Q? You did say they handed him off to Mycroft?”

“Yes,” Q heard his voice shake and took a deep breath. “Sorry–Mycroft has him, currently. I assume at his home, and he is in reasonable shape and being treated for his injuries.”

Jim blinked and the smile vanished in exchange for a puzzled expression, “What?”

Sebastian spoke up for the first time, “What do you know, and what do you THINK?”

Q nodded at Sebastian, “Mycroft had been preparing for a prisoner transfer to his facilities–he wound that down BEFORE Max’s listed death. However, he has been getting groceries delivered to a home–more than previously–including a lot of what I can only call convalescent food. He placed very discrete orders for BDSM equipment–”

“Like what?” Jim asked lightly, but his tone had Bond and Q looking concerned–they noted Sebastian looking rather concerned as well.

“Nothing overly problematic, actually,” Q hurried to assure him.

“Like. What.”

“Soft but thorough restraints, a few harder restraints, but again not painful–the kind of things you’d get for someone who was into submission but not masochism.” Q sighed faintly, “I know the shops–that’s how I found the purchases–and I’m either familiar with what he bought or I looked it up: the restraints should be VERY effective and hard to get out of, but not painful.”

Jim settled back slightly. “Go on.”

“Honestly, it’s mostly restraints…” Q looked at the other three men. “Things for bondage and dominance, one or two items for discipline, but… none of the restraints are even sexual? No dildos; the gag was even a straightforward gag…” Q shrugged. “No pet play, no tails, ears or anything–I thought there would be, based on the mitts–”

“Mitts?” Bond asked curiously.

“Lockable mittens? Like… a soft, padded mitt: it keeps you from using your hands well at all…” Q shrugged.

Bond said slowly, “That could be for medical reasons too–he had his fingernails pulled–”

Jim flashed a bright cheerful smile and Sebastian winced.

“Sir?” Sebastian said. “MYCROFT didn’t do that–or even oversee it–and it sounds like he isn’t… hurting him?”

“You can hurt someone with kitchen tools, Sebie: God knows I’ve done it enough.” Jim smiled back at Q, “But nothing sexual or painful on the shopping list?”

Q shook his head, “No. And… I checked–the condom order history is the same as it has been, and no unusual orders for lubrication or… anything–mostly first aid creams? Look… I KNOW the scene. I played in it–with Max for a while–and… I checked! When I saw creams for diaper rash or skin problems I checked for purchases of infant play–I found a few things, but… the easy to clean sheets and the adult diapers were ordered early on, and haven’t been re-ordered… and no pacifier gags, no baby clothes…” Q trailed off as he realized all three men were staring at him.

“What?” Q said defensively.

“No… what?” Sebastian asked, sounding rather strangled.

“Oh for…” Q rubbed his head. “I have NO idea what Mycroft Holmes might be into–or what he might do as a humiliation, do you understand? So I checked for EVERYTHING even remotely indicated by his purchases.”

“I think,” Bond said clearing his throat, “that some of us are less aware of the kink scene than we thought…”

Jim was sitting back and peeling an apple with a knife into thin slivers. “I obviously have more research to do. Can you please assume we AREN’T filled in? I mostly know about … well, BDSM.” Jim licked his lips thoughtfully looking at Bond. “It can be fun.”

Bond snorted, “I’ve been worked over too often to think it’s fun.”

Q sighed, “Are you all familiar with tying people up with handcuffs and blindfolds? Whether you’re into it or not?” Everyone nodded. “Do you understand that some people are into a bit of pain–some people are into it a lot?” Everyone agreed that they knew about it at least.

“Some people are into age play–being cared for like they were a child–it CAN involve sex, but doesn’t always. Some people are into dressing their submissive up as animals–puppy play, kitty play… or horses… um…. There are butt plugs with tails…” Q cleared his throat.

Jim side eyed at the camera–towards Sebastian apparently–“Really?”

Sebastian looked… intrigued. “The people who make this stuff… they do custom?”

Q muttered, “Yes, they do custom.” He took a deep breath. “EVERYTHING in the kink marketplace has someone who does custom work–can we worry about this after we rescue Max?”

Bond was busy trying to get the image of Q in some of the outfits he’d seen out of his head–and forget how Q had shifted in his seat at the mention of tails–so he agreed hurriedly and asked, “So it appears Mycroft has Max and isn’t… what do you think he is doing?”

“I could be wrong, of course, but based on the purchase history? I would assume that Max is being treated for his injuries and restrained at Mycroft’s house. I can’t tell you if they’re having sex, but based on the lack of certain purchases I would assume not.”

Q continued, “Unfortunately, while we could plant the computer taps into Mallory’s car–I can control it remotely now–and Tanner’s systems all have backdoors I put in… Mycroft’s systems are a different thing entirely. I wouldn’t have been able to get in without your taps… and I CAN’T get into his house.”

“I can.” Bond shrugged.

“No, you can’t,” Jim grumbled. “At least not without alerting too many people–I know, it’s a fortress disguised as a house.”

“Then… I don’t know how to get Max out,” Q admitted, “unless we can kidnap Mycroft?”

“He’s tough to get to,” Sebastian nodded. “That’s why Jim had me get into position for some leverage.”

“Leverage?”

“Mycroft also has a troublesome baby brother…” Jim smirked. “Sherlock Holmes.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a short but important chapter

Once Max gave in, once he stopped expecting to be hurt, he found that Mycroft was willing to permit a small number of liberties. First and most importantly, he was permitted to leave the mittens off.

“Only if you continue to treat your fingernail beds properly, you understand,” Mycroft said firmly to him as he put him back in his room for the day.

“Yes, sir.” Max hesitated in confusion, before following Mycroft’s gesture to the pad next to the bed.

“You kneel when I put you in your room, and you kneel when I come to get you,” Mycroft said with a nod, and waited until Max did, in fact go over and kneel on the pad. He nodded, “You may get up once I’ve left, or I tell you to come over.”

“I’m not a dog,” Max muttered.

“I could have you kenneled,” Mycroft said firmly, “if you don’t learn to behave better than a dog. Now try that again?”

“Kneel until you’ve left, kneel when you come to get me, and don’t get up until you tell me to… sir.”

“Much better.” And he left.

Max knelt there until he was certain the door wouldn’t open again and then he got up. The room was bugged–he didn’t need to see the cameras to know that. He spent most of the day trying to figure out if there was any way out, now that he had use of his hands–there wasn’t–and reading one of the few books in the room.

Jimmy had been right: boredom was the utter worst.

~

Mi6 was quietly abuzz for the next several days. Q, after all, hadn’t needed to plant much evidence of questionable contacts… and now the interrogator was missing. Mallory and Tanner started looking hunted, and Q was rather readily able to find out that Mycroft was turning the screws rather hard.

Bond was busy “coming back to MI6” and Q was busy making sure there were no holes or leaks in his department–on top of the usual mission issues–so it wasn’t until two days later that he and Bond ended up at Q’s apartment to go over things.

Much to Q’s surprise, Bond cooked.

“You… can cook?” Q was staring at a rather nicely done fish, with a rice platter and vegetables that he was QUITE certain had not existed–in any form–in his flat previously.

“I can cook,” Bond said with a faint smile. “I just rarely let anyone know because they start to expect it–might start making a fuss about my expense accounts eating out.”

Q rolled his eyes, “It’s not your meal plan people worry about with your expenses, Bond, it’s the… oh… cars? Pistols? Buildings?”

Bond just flashed him that innocent look and sat down to eat and pet the cats.

“Traitors,” Q sighed at Alan and Ada.

The dinner was, in fact, excellent. They were talking and Q was enjoying himself immensely and it was incredible how much NICER Bond was when he wasn’t destroying your equipment or on a mission… he might have mentioned that.

“I’m… not employed because I’m nice–furthest thing from nice, actually.”

“Well, apparently you can be, which should just make me more upset at how callous you are about my equipment, but you’re apparently too charming to stay mad at.”

Bond flashed that insufferable smile, “So, since we’ve moved on to personal discussions…”

“Errr… yes?”

“You were involved with Max and BDSM…?”

“He wasn’t… yes. It’s complicated, but yes.”

“You were mentioning a lot more than just… handcuffs and rope.”

“First of all, I experimented a lot trying to find out what I was actually into…” Q waited until Bond nodded and continued, “and then because of the computer work I do, well… between finding out and researching things–even if I never tried them–and running a few servers for the kink community…”

“Ah… that makes sense.”

Q nodded uncomfortably, “At least one of the purchases Mycroft made went to a store I built the webpage for.”

Bond nodded, “Not what I wanted to ask, though.”

“Oh… uh… what then?”

“So what ARE you into?”

Q flushed, something he thought he had gotten over years ago, “About what Jim guessed.”

Bond raised an eyebrow and made “do continue” motions.

“I prefer to sub, but it’s been harder and harder to find anyone I trust to… really let go with.” Q took a deep breath, “Max played the Dom, but honestly he… he was too insecure, and he pushed too hard because…”

“He overcompensated,” Bond nodded–he’d met the man after all. “Now that I’ve met Jim, well…”

“Jim said he was… Jim said he was overcompensating, trying to be… well, him.”

“So this has to do with you?”

“I prefer to sub, but it’s hard to find someone I can trust, and once I went to work for MI6 it became next to impossible, as… I would expect any agent to know.”

Bond nodded slowly. “It’s hard to find someone you can trust enough to have a relationship at all with, much less one that involves good blackmail material.”

“Exactly,” Q nodded. “Jim said… that he normally prefers to top, but he can sub with someone if he really trusts them–Sebastian I assume–and he… thought I reminded him of himself at a younger age,” Q looked up, “except flipped? I prefer to sub, but I enjoy topping on occasion… and he said he plays with knives, which is WAY over my limits.”

Bond sat back and had his neutral agent face on. “Sounds like quite the chat.”

“It was terrifying and confusing and… He was saying you weren’t into knives he didn’t think and he thought we–the two of us I mean–were a good match.”

“Sebastian compared the two of you.”

“And the two of YOU… and the whole brains brawn and shooting people thing, yes.” Q sighed, “And it’s been… pretty awful for me because I keep… Look, can you just remind me that you don’t like men that way so I can stop THINKING about it?”

Bond gave him a polite, almost frosty smile. “Have you been? Thinking about it?”

“Bond, kindly don’t play the idiot? I’ve had a mad crush on you for ages, which is why you kept getting things you shouldn’t, like a head start on your Smart Blood, and including that damn car when you were running off with that BITCH!” Q realized he was snarling and his hands were balled up into fists and he stood up and started loudly making tea until he could calm down.

Eventually he came back to the table with the tea tray. Bond was sitting where he had been, apparently still watching Q: it didn’t look as though he’d moved at all.

“You didn’t answer the question, Q: what are you into?”

“As a sub? I’ve enjoyed a lot–including pet play on occasion–but it basically comes down to restraint, and… Why the hell do you need to know?”

“I spoke briefly with Sebastian yesterday–he seemed a bit shocked that we weren’t together and was asking if our interests weren’t compatible.” Bond shrugged very slightly, “I told him the truth–I didn’t think you were interested in me.”

Q’s mouth dropped open and stayed that way. After trying for quite a bit, he finally managed to get out, “How could you MISS IT?! Everyone knew I was crushed when you left… everyone! Hell, I got a condolences comment from one of the JANITORS!”

“Actually… I had no idea.” Bond closed his eyes slowly. “You crept up on me, you know. Somewhere, I realized I trusted you–and that’s rare–but it never occurred to me that you wanted… what do you want?”

Q stared at him, “I want to be the reason you come home.”

Bond fixed those blue laser eyes on him, “What if sex isn’t… isn’t a big part of this? Would you still want that?”

“I would like to have both sex and a relationship,” Q answered, not quite believing that he was having this conversation, “but if I had to pick one it would be the relationship.”

“Then… I have to apologize–”

Q felt his heart sink.

“–for not realizing your interest before,” Bond said quietly. “Sex is a tool… and it can be hard to get out of that mindset. I rather knew you were interested in sex, but so is half the office: I’m good at it and word gets around and then people want to put a notch on their bedpost saying they spent a night with the infamous James Bond.” Bond smirked, “Not that I haven’t used that to get some people into bed… or to get things out of people.”

“So… where are you going with this?” Q asked very hesitantly, not sure if he should have hope or be bracing for disaster.

“I’ve had sex with men before: work,” Bond shrugged as he thought about missions and all the people he’d bedded for Queen, Country, and M. “I haven’t had a relationship with a man before–hell, I’ve only had a few relationships at all…

“…but if we make it through all of this and walk away in enough pieces to call it good? I think I’d be interested in giving it a try.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes didn’t pay much attention to the news–he never had; he paid less attention now, as he was trying to figure out what was going on with Mycroft. Mycroft had been unusually busy and, perhaps more perplexing, unusually busy at home.

He was up to something.

Some of it had to do with MI6 as far as he could tell, since the few times Mycroft was dealing with business outside of his home or office he seemed to be putting a great deal of pressure on MI6.

Sherlock had started digging into it quietly, but thus far no luck; he had, however, found out that Mycroft had called up Jim’s autopsy results… after all these years.

Sherlock went in and talked to Molly… and Molly was acting oddly. She had that same upset, secretive thing going on that she had had on a few occasions previously. She seemed distressed and she was second guessing herself and she wouldn’t talk to him–or rather, she only talked about business and seemed determined not to babble as she usually did.

Sherlock thanked her for her help, and left… and went straight to her flat. Her locks really needed to be upgraded: Sherlock made a note to tell Mycroft to do it. Toby was glad to see him, which Sherlock would have felt happier about but Toby was glad to see anyone that petted him.

It didn’t take long to find her diary. She’d gone back to hiding it–poorly–which meant she was worried about what she was writing in it. He read the recent entries.

She was writing rather circumspectly but she’d seen someone with Lestrade that she had seen before and didn’t expect to see here? And it worried her–frightened her. Sherlock considered and re-read the entries: her tone was off. He went quickly back through her prior entries.

_She was getting postcards from someone named Ryan? She’d never mentioned a Ryan?_

_Postcards…_

Sherlock went and looked and sure enough most of them were tucked into a wall display–he pulled the most recent one out. It was a picture of Egypt; he turned it over:

“Molly,

You’d hate it here, but the mummy museum was interesting. Seb is in his element, all sunburnt and adorable. Yes, I’m wearing sunscreen. I’ll send you a postcard from America; maybe you could get vacation time and join us?

Ryan”

The date wasn’t long ago–she was expecting Seb, then to be in America? Not here? Something was naggingly familiar. He pulled another post card, this one from Japan:

“Molly,

Don’t cry at me about his condition! I swear I had nothing to do with it; I don’t even have any business interests with them, that’s all on Frosty. I promised, didn’t I?

Ryan.

P.S. Seb says hi.”

Deductions were piling up too fast, and too impossibly. Sherlock looked at the date: only a few weeks after his return. He pulled down one of the oldest postcards–it was from Athens:

“Molly,

Of course I knew. What’s important is they don’t know about ME. It’s alright, I’m not mad. Of course no one will get hurt–I promised didn’t I? Just don’t get chilled. You ARE still coming to the wedding, right?

Ryan”

Sherlock stared at the cards. The tone and rhythm of the words; the slant of the handwriting indicated someone writing with his right hand who was naturally left handed; the warnings about Frost, chill, ice…

 _Wedding… she was invited to the wedding… she would have kept souvenirs, but where?_ Sherlock smiled and turned the photo frame over–there was an envelope stuck to the back. Molly was so very, very bad at this. He opened the envelope and slid out…

The engraved invitation and the wedding photo slid between fingers gone suddenly numb and fluttered to the floor. After a very long time, he managed to still his shaking hands long enough to pick them up.

James Ryan Donnelly Doyle to John Sebastian Moran. The photo was unmistakably Jim Moriarty looking wickedly delighted up at a tall muscular man: sniper, Sherlock’s mind supplied instantly, probably SAS as well; there was a woman who slightly resembled the other man standing by him, and Molly standing by Jim…

As Sherlock put everything back, his mind was spinning. He walked out of her apartment and considered…

He went to Bill Wiggan’s place–Mycroft had his bugged, of course–and began looking up the news: everything to do with MI6 and MI5 in the last year or two. He almost choked when he saw Jim in the photo, but a second look said no… not Jim.

He looked like Jim, though.

Max Denbigh? Oh yes, he'd looked before...supposedly a coincidence of appearance. Sherlock started looking up Max Denbigh again. He’d died… closed casket… accident. Sherlock snorted and hacked into Mycroft’s computers–Jim’s old back doors were still…

Someone had used them.

Someone had used them RECENTLY.

Sherlock backed out very carefully. He steepled his fingers and considered: Jim Moriarty was alive; Mycroft hadn’t known that but then pulled his autopsy records–because a question came up. Max Denbigh would certainly have raised questions with his stunning resemblance.

James Ryan Donnelly Doyle–Sherlock started looking up that name and ran into blocks and erasures… and traces of his brother’s agency looking into it–recently, no surprise. He sat back and considered. Max… Denbigh… M, and D… people often used their own initials…

He entered M Donnelly Doyle and hit the jackpot: James Michael Donnelly Doyle. A bright student by most standards, although clearly not the extraordinary mind of Jim Moriarty. A bit of digging found records of involuntary commitment of his mother–and hints of a brother. Sherlock ignored that for the moment and dug deeply into the mother and father’s records.

The mother–Riona Donnelly–came from a long line of under educated brilliance–and madness. She’d died while committed. Her common law husband: James Michael Doyle… now that was interesting. He was listed as dead but the paperwork was suspicious.

Sherlock put it aside to think about later.

The critical thing was that Riona Donnelly had a listed next of kin–her son, Ryan. James Ryan Donnelly Doyle: older brother to James Michael Donnelly Doyle who eventually became Max Denbigh. Max Denbigh, whose face clearly marked him as being Jim Moriarty’s relation.

Max Denbigh had obviously not died, but ended up in custody–Mycroft’s custody. _We hadn’t known anything about Jim’s family, of course._

Sherlock considered carefully: Jim’s body was autopsied–not by Molly, but Molly would have had access to the body before it was taken away. _Molly hadn’t just helped ME fake my death–she’d helped JIM fake his death!_ Sherlock couldn’t help but smile: he’d thought it such a damn waste when Jim died.

She helped him fake his death; he got married to one of his snipers; he was obviously away from England and going on with his life; and… Sherlock found that he was pleased with that. It eased something in his mind to know that Jim was… Jim was alive.

The mad thing in his mind palace laughed and his chains fell off as he stood up. “Bravo!” He bowed. “I was never as mad as you imagined, was I?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “but I couldn’t let you hurt them.”

He blinked and found that it was well past dawn.

Mycroft had Max. Mycroft likely ran a blood test and found out that his Jim’s body didn’t match the genetics. Sherlock matched the timeline up carefully: Max must have been in MI6’s hands before Mycroft got him… so why was Mycroft so angry?

Hmmm.

And Sebastian was here… Jim’s husband and sniper… and no one had told Molly…

Sherlock’s blood went very cold. Jim had found out his brother was in danger, somehow. Jim had used the taps into Mycroft’s computer to find him…

Sherlock considered carefully and got up.

“Finally,” Billy snorted. “Was beginning to wonder what you took!”

“Nothing,” Sherlock shook his head. He tossed a few bills to Billy, “Thanks for the computer access.”

“Next time ask?”

“You do know me, right?”

Billy just shook his head as Sherlock walked out.

He went to Greg Lestrade’s favorite pub: sure enough, he was sitting there with Sebastian, yelling at the game.

Sherlock walked over. “Gary? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Greg looked up in surprise. Sherlock watched Sebastian and saw the startlement switch quickly to a pleasant, friendly look–but there was wary interest there. “Sherlock?” Greg waved. “Did I actually never introduce Charles?”

“I think you tried to once,” Sebastian–Charles–said pleasantly, “but he mostly went on about shoes and ignored you.”

 _It would be a safe dodge as to why I don’t know you, but… I need to talk to you. Shoes, though? Yes, that’s a good way to get a message through._ Sherlock nodded slowly and locked gaze with Sebastian. “Oh yes, your friend had the most interesting trainers. Have you seen him lately? I could use to talk to him.”

Sebastian’s eyes got very, very wide and then he smiled, “Oh… he’s about, I think.”

Greg was mostly looking lost–not unusual. Sherlock nodded, “I could meet you after this… uh… what is it?”

“Rugby, Sherlock,” Greg groaned. “And you hate pubs and hate sports, so what on earth are you doing here? Is there a case?”

“Yes, a client has a missing brother.,” Sherlock nodded, and watched Sebastian’s eyes almost sparkle with delight. “I was going to speak to you, but… honestly, I suspect that Charles–it was Charles, wasn’t it?–knows someone who can answer the questions a bit better.”

“I rather expect I do.” Sebastian nodded gracefully, “Sorry Greg, but the game sucked, so not much loss.”

“True.” Greg sighed, “I should turn in early anyway–I’m getting too old to work these shifts.”

Sebastian clapped him on the shoulder and gestured to Sherlock to go out. Sherlock chose the less observed door–he’d disabled the camera before coming in.

Once outside, Sebastian glanced around with the calm observation of the professional. “I honestly expected a crowd of agents… or at least a car.”

“No one knows I am here, Mister Moran–or is it Mister Moriarty?”

Sebastian smiled warmly, “Damn you smart, sexy brunettes. How’s a boy to concentrate?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “As relieved as I am to find out Jim is alive and well, I think I want to head this off before my brother gets hurt.”

“Relieved, were you?” Sebastian looked at him curiously. “We were thinking of picking you up for leverage, you know.”

Sherlock snorted, “Doesn’t surprise me. Shall we? I’d rather not be knocked on the head or drugged or what not.”

“Sure… I expect the bomb has gone off by now.” Sebastian laughed.

“Bomb?” Sherlock frowned, “If John or Mycroft are hurt–”

“Oh God no,” Sebastian said hurriedly. “Just some idiots at Six. Should keep everyone busy, though.”

“Ah.”

Sebastian walked over to a motorcycle and handed him a helmet. “I know better than to bother blindfolding you,” he laughed. “You might enjoy it though–give you a puzzle to work out.”

Sherlock smiled tiredly, “I might at that, but not today.”

“Nah… heck, maybe you can calm him down–he’s been impossible.”

“Yes, well… family,” Sherlock nodded and swung onto the motorcycle behind him.


	12. explosions and silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets tend to twist and turn...  
> Explosions go off, and Sherlock and Jim finally see each other again... it doesnt go as expected.  
> (CW: canon events, past torture, etc)

Q had gotten an email early that morning telling him to keep anyone he cared about away from a specific coffee shop today, and under no circumstances to use the unofficial smokers’ door from MI6. The coffee shop was a bit tricky, but he found extra work for some people and sent a few on errands in the wrong direction.

…

Bond and Q were both at headquarters when reports came in about the first attack.   Naturally MI6–and most intelligence agencies– went on lock down… but they didn’t do it quite soon enough.  There had been a coordinated set of explosions–most of which did what could only be called ‘publicity damage’–a few people injured and a lot of mess.

Two of the explosions however did more: one explosion went off in a coffee shop where a number of MI6 agents, and other intelligence agents, tended to stop for coffee; the other explosion was just outside  one of the side exits from MI6 itself and critically injured three employees on a smoke break.

Two more bombs were found before they could go off, one near the palace, and one in a public park.

Suddenly they were all VERY busy.

~

Jim was watching the results of the explosions with interest when Sebastian texted, “back with a guest.”  _A guest? What?_   Jim walked out into the living room and froze as he saw Sherlock dragging his hand through his curls.

“That was… quite exciting, actually.” Sherlock’s baritone voice sounded quite cheerful, “I begin to see why people like them.”

“Motorcycles are great, yeah.” Sebastian said back.  He glanced over, “Boss?”

Jim very slowly said, “Care to fill me in on how Sherlock Holmes came to be standing in my living room, Tiger?” He looked… he looked well, if… if careworn: older and with more lines on his face.

Sherlock looked over and stopped smiling… there was a pause as his eyes scanned Jim from head to toe and back. “I found Sebastian and asked him to take me to you…apparently my brother has your brother and I thought it was likely to get…difficult.” His expression softened very slightly, “I was very glad to find out you were alive.”

Jim’s gaze could have cut bank vaults, “I doubt that.  How long have you and your brother known then?  We haven’t had many assassins on our tails… were you just waiting for me to waltz back into the trap?”

Sherlock frowned, “I found out you were still alive yesterday: I had no idea before then.  I expect my brother found out when he pulled the autopsy reports on your body recently… he would have checked the DNA against your brother once he had him.”

Sebastian put his hand out and touched Jim’s shoulder. “Let me ask, you get upset.”

Jim just leaned into a wall and got the most excruciatingly blank look on his face.

“You only found out YESTERDAY?” Sebastian asked.

Sherlock once again had the feeling that he was missing something, which aggravated him. “I had been trying to find out what was going on with Mycroft recently.  He hadn’t even HINTED at my helping with anything but something was taking all his attention.” Sherlock shrugged, “I started digging.  After a while I found out that he’d pulled the old autopsy reports… and I wondered why: my investigation went from there.”  Sherlock considered, “Someone had been using your old taps into my brother’s computers, recently, which I found out when I went to use them.”

“I’d been told they couldn’t be traced?” Sebastian glanced at Jim who nodded.

“I couldn’t trace them: I could only tell they’d been ACCESSED, and at that it was likely only noticeable because I was also using the outside access.” Sherlock reached for an analogy, “the computer equivalent of pulling open an old door, finding it remarkably silent, and seeing that the hinges were recently oiled.”

Jim sighed, “Yes, that might happen–we weren’t worried about someone else tapping IN, only someone inside noticing.”

“I…” Sherlock frowned, “This is not how I had anticipated this would go…”

Jim raised an eyebrow and said nothing, Sebastian sighed, “Jim hasn’t forgiven you for siccing Mycroft on him–neither have I really, but…” he looked back at Jim, “a long running disagreement on levels of culpability and provocation.”

Sherlock sighed, “I came to the conclusion some time ago that trying to understand veiled commentary and allusions to shared information was a waste of my time.  Either tell me what’s wrong or table it and move on.”

Jim smiled tightly, “What’s going on is that your brother has my baby brother captive, and unlike me he doesn’t have any failsafes to let him walk out in one piece.”

“Yes, I had gathered…” Sherlock frowned, “Max Denbigh is officially dead, if that’s what you mean?”

“No, I mean the only reason I lived through your brother’s interrogation was that I had fail safes–fail safes my brother doesn’t have.  MI6 already half killed him by the reports I have and now Mycroft is working him over.”

“Is that why explosions were targeting MI6…” Sherlock said half to himself and then paused, “what do you mean about my brother’s interrogation….” He said it slowly as the way both men had reacted– the way Moriarty’s behavior had changed at the time– processed.

Sherlock looked up, frowning, “I… suspect I have completely incorrect information…” he started going over data rapidly in his mind.

 

Sebastian and Jim had a silent conversation, replaying the ones they had had–loudly– before: targeting Watson had been personal, Mycroft viewing a threat to his brother was personal, Questions about how much Sherlock knew, or wanted.

After a short time Sherlock looked up, “I went to my brother for help because I had no way to protect John from you.  I had, and have, very little idea of what happened other than that he was speaking and bargaining with you about terrorist activities and you wanted information about me.”

“I was tortured.” Jim smiled sharply; there was nothing friendly about it.

Sherlock looked at him blankly, “Regardless of what you told Molly, it is evident that you had that returned, with interest.”

Sebastian inhaled sharply, “what?”

Sherlock looked at Sebastian with that same emotionless mask, and took off his coat, and then unfastened his cuffs and unbuttoned his shirt.  He turned…

Jim flinched and Sebastian swore at the crisscrossed scars, some obviously deep enough to have done lasting damage to the muscle.

Sherlock turned back. “I had wondered why, once I found out you were alive, until then of course I thought it was just happenstance.” He pulled his shirt back on. “I had no idea that Mycroft damaged you–or had you damaged, since he is unlikely to have done it himself.”

Sebastian shook his head, “I have no clue what happened to you, but we didn’t have anything to do with it!”

“Given that Molly wrote to Jim about it, and his reply said that he had nothing to do with it, and that the people responsible were not his  network, “ Sherlock said drily, “JIM certainly knew about it, and if he knew, and you did not, then I think that confirms that he was responsible.”

Sebastian turned and stared at Jim, “You… you knew? You talked to Molly about..?”

“I didn’t know it was that bad.” Jim said quietly.  His expression had lost its edge and gone distant. “Molly said you were badly hurt, but she never said…”

“Jim…” Sebastian walked over and put his hands on Jim’s shoulders, “What’s going on?”

Sherlock pulled out a cigarette, “I was in Serbia; I was captured.  They apparently didn’t know who I was…except I always thought they knew something…” He inhaled the sharp tang and poison flooded his system and calmed his nerves, “Mycroft had to come in person to get me out… I would have died otherwise.”

Jim said something sharply in another language, spun on his heel, and left: Sebastian looked torn between chasing after him and not–he finally sagged onto a chair.

“I didn’t know.” Sebastian said quietly. “I wondered why he always turned me down when I offered–”

Sherlock took another deep drag on his cigarette. “Offered to hurt me? Kill me?”

“Yes.  I didn’t think it was fair to go after your friends,” Sebastian looked at him and winced as he realized, “he always said it was over and done with.”

“… and yet he still seems angry about it.” Sherlock shrugged.

Sebastian sat back, “he loved you in his own way… so you turning on him like that…”

“I never turned on him; I merely rescinded my prior request to Mycroft to stay out of it and let me… play I suppose.  When he targeted John, I had to do something.”

“We weren’t together then.” Sebastian sighed, “I worked for him, but… we didn’t have a relationship until after Mycroft.”

Sherlock looked at Sebastian, “I meant it: I was glad to find out he was alive…but if it comes down to a choice between my friends or my brother, and Jim?  My decision remains the same.” He looked off a bit distantly. “I suppose I thought he would be… pleased? To see me.” The pain was buried hard, but would eventually have to be dealt with.

“I thought he would be too.” Sebastian sighed and got up, “And now I know why he isn’t:  he never coped with guilt well.”

Sherlock blinked, “You think that’s why?” _Guilt_?

“Yeah.  I have no doubt he wanted you to hurt… at the time, but he not only kept it from Molly, he didn’t tell me…” Sebastian went off after him, “Just… stay put please?”

“Of course.” Sherlock closed his eyes… _Mycroft what did you do… and what are you doing now?_

 


End file.
